stones'; and your seats are made of mounds of earth'; and here, with many a joke and many a laugh', you pile up your cold tongues', your slits of dried beef', your slices of ham', your cake and cheese', and down' the party sits, with keen appetites', to what our newspapers call a cold collation. Your water you bring from an adjacent spring, in your hat', or a wooden bowl', unless a sudden thunder-shower should come up', and then you can open your mouth and catch it directly from the sky.

Here the party sit and talk, as Adam and the angel did in Eden', without fear, lest dinner cool. The cheeks of the girls are painted with what I consider as the best rougé*, good native fresh air', and abundance of exercise', and I have known very important connections formed for life', whose commencement was in a whortleberry pasture. After dinner they scatter again to their afternoon work'; and as the sun descends and the time becomes shorter', I have observed that they generally become more sober, and double their diligence', in order to fill their boxes and baskets before evening. Besides, nature becomes a little exhausted', nor can the most lively stream dance and sparkle through the whole of its course.

I remember that near a great pasture', where our parties used most frequently to go', and which my grandfather called the Take-up-time', on the opposite side of the road', on a smooth grassy plain', stood a little cottage', owned by Mr. Johnny Croft, a widower', whose wealth was by no means to be measured by his outward display. Beside this cottage flowed a river', fringed with alders', which shall be nameless, because in New England, we do not give very poetic names to our rivers'; for who can hitch into rhyme, or soften into an essay', the Amonoosuc', the Shetucket', the Quinebaug', and the Quineboag', Mother Brooks', and a hundred other fluvial mothers' names', which seem to have been given to fright the muses from our shores', 'and to invite nothing but factories and paper-mills to the banks of our streams. Well the said Mr. Johnny Croft', one day, when the sun was declining, came out', and, with all the politeness of which he was master, invited a large party of us to come into his sentry-box to take tea', previous to our returning home.

* Rooj.

It is a maxim among the schoolmen, that whatever is received, is received according to the capacity of the recipient'; and accordingly', my first wonder was how so small a house was to hold so many people. But as Mr. Croft was a widower', and my aunt Hannah a single lady', we agreed, with many winks and much tittering', to accept his invitation. His little room was soon filled'; there was hardly a place to set the table. The seats at the table were soon occupied by the junior visitants`; and the only chair left vacant for aunt Hannah was next to our host', the worthy Mr. John Croft', a little older than herself', and a widower. In such a condition, it was impossible to restrain the looks', the winks', and smiles', of the company. Mr. Johnny was all attention'; and my aunt looked queer several times. Sometimes he would help her to a spoonful of honey', and sometimes to a bunch of grapes`; and once he invited her to come and make a week's visit at his house'; for which compliment she returned him her humble and hearty thanks', but left it ambiguous whether she ever intended to come. Mr. Croft was a man who mingled very little in society'; he lived in a solitary part of the town', and in his politeness he was not always able to fulfill his good intentions. The scene would have passed off very well but for accident. My aunt's tea happened to be too strong'; and Mr. Croft, who was all attention', jumped up and took the tea-kettle off from the fireplace, in the same room', and began to replenish the cup with water. But whilst in the act', the handle slipped from its socket', the tea-kettle fell`, scalded Mr. Croft's foot disastrously, and tumbled, with its sooty sides', on my aunt's chintz gown. Many were the apologies on both sides', and deep the sorrow expressed; and I need not say that all the wit in the wagon, as we rode home that evening', was at my aunt's expense.

Oh, scenes of simplicity and comparative innocence! How can they regret the chandelier of the midnight dance', who can enjoy our rural moon'; or wish for the music or floor of a ball-room', who can hear the melody of our cat-birds as they pursue their simple pleasures on the carpet of naturé? Why should those manners be thought despicable, in our fathers', which Goldsmith has commended in verse"?

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play',
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway';

Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind',
Unenvied', unmolested', unconfined.

But the long pomp', the midnight masquerade',
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed',
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain',
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain';
And even while fashion's brightest arts decoy',
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy'?

LESSON LXVI.

QUESTIONS TO A FLOWER.

LITTLE flower, with infant eyé,
Very much I wonder why

Thou hast thus thy leaves unfurled'
In this cold and cruel world.
Hast thou heard no friend repeat'
"Tales of trials" thou mayst meet'?
Know'st thou that, beneath our skies,
Many a tender flow'ret dies'?
Sometimes scanty rain drops fall'—
Sometimes do not come at all';

Sunbeams fierce their heat will shed.

On thine unprotected head';

Sad indeed, poor flower, for thee'
Thus to die in agony.

Or, if struggling with thy pain,
Life should barely yet remain',
There are other woes in storé,
Worse than these recounted o'er.

Now, the summer sky is bright',
All its clouds are soft and white';
Sunbeams near thee love to stray';
Zephyrs with thy leaflets play';
But ere long a blacker cloud
May thy sky in darkness shroud';
Fiercest winds in midnight storm
Shall approach thy fragile form';
Thou wilt find no zephyr's grace
In their rude and rough embrace';

Biting winds will whistle nigh',
Leaves will fade and flow'rets die';
Thou wilt only stive in vain
With the storm of wind and rain';
Faintly thou wilt gasp below
Coming piles of winter snow';
There, oh hapless fate', thou'lt lié,
Thus alone, poor flower', to die.
Why then hast thou in the world
Leaflets frail and fair unfurled'?

LESSON LXVII.

ON A YELLOW WREN.

(An Anecdote from Herbert's Researches.)

AND hast thou return'd to the place of thy birth,
From thy flight through the regions and cities of earth';
Over islands of spice, where the air is perfum'd',
Where the rose in its eastern luxur'ance has bloom'd'?

Hast thou sipp'd of the river whose sands, mix'd with gold,
No eye but its Maker's did ever behold'?

Where the diamond lies buried, the pearl is concealed';
Where the secrets of Nature were never reveal'd'?

Hast thou perch'd on the palace of barbarous kings,
And witness'd the sorrow which ignorance brings';
Where their wives are neglected, their children untaught',
Where the sound of salvation has never been brought'?

Passing over the coast, hast thou seen the poor slave',
In chains, and in tears', borne far o'er the wave',
To toil in the land where his soul' cannot dwell'?
For what is immortal' man cannot compel.

On the grave of the traveler now has thy flight
Been compell'd in the desert, to rest for the night',
Where a tree has been planted in beauty to bloom,
Where the bones* of the weary are mold'ring too soon'?

*The bones of Capt. Clapperton, who accompanied Major Denham to Africa, from England, on a scientific expedition

Hast thou crossed over states where the trumpet's loud call Is sounding for war, and the soldier must fall',

And soon desolation its ruin must spread,

Where they weep for the dying, and mourn for the dead'?

Hast thou pass'd over cities of famous renown',
Whose suns brightly rose', but in darkness went down';
Where not even a ruin remains now, to state

That their Princes were mighty, their riches were great'?

Oh, much hast thou seen we should like to behold,
Which the tongue of no trav'ler has yet ever told`;
And much we must turn from in horror away`;
But for earth's restoration we cease not to pray.

Away from those scenes, and alight on the eave
Which in freedom thou once wast permitted to have`;
And confess, though by nature addicted to roam,
There is no place beside, so delightful as Home.

LESSON LXVIII.

THE TOAD'S JOURNAL.

Ir is related by Mr. Belzoni, in the interesting narrative of his late discoveries in Egypt', that having succeeded in clearing a passage to the entrance of an ancient temple, which had been for ages buried in the sand', the first object that presented itself, on entering, was a toad of enormous size'; and, (if we may credit the assertions of some naturalists respecting the extraordinary longevity of these creatures, when in a state of solitary confinement',) we may believe that it was well stricken in years.

Whether the subjoined document was entrusted to our traveler by the venerable reptile', as a present to the British Museum', or with the more mercantile view of getting it printed in London, in preference to Alexandria', on condition of receiving one per cent. on the profits, after the sale of the 500th edition', (provided the publisher should by that time be at all remunerated for his risk and trouble',) we pretend